


attachment theory

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sherlock, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Top John Watson, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 17:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21285563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock finds himself a little distracted.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 12
Kudos: 267





	attachment theory

**Author's Note:**

> Found this with a bunch of old, half-written fics on my old laptop. It was originally prompted by an anon on tumblr. I can't remember the exact prompt, but I gather it was along the lines of Sherlock walking in on John getting a blow job from a date. Finally finished it.
> 
> Enjoy this gratuitous smut fic.

The first time Sherlock finds himself wanting another person, there is snow in the air. Drifting down in slow, lazy spirals, it coats his hair, melts and soaks through to the scalp beneath, sending shivers down his spine.

He loves the cold—loves winter and the bone-deep chill of the air. The way it numbs the constant sound in his head, the forever-song of his veins.

On his way home, Sherlock pauses in the street, briefly holding up traffic. He lets ice crystals form in his hair, submerging him in an icy state of almost-hypothermia, a shivering parody of fatality.

When he finally steps through the door of 221B, he's laden with melted snow. Water drips from his hair, running down his arms, legs, face and fingers to pool at his feet. Sherlock smiles at the impressive puddle of ice water as he pulls off his jacket and scarf, slinging them across the banister with a quick twist of his arm. He's on the first step, second, third, mouth opening to demand tea from his flatmate (he has already spotted John's boots, set neatly beside the door, snow drying in the laces), when he hears it.

A noise—a sort of groaning sound, choked off at the end that dies away in a harsh sigh. Sherlock pauses on the stairs, slowly creeping to the top step, breath heavy in his lungs as snowflakes melt in his hair.

More sounds, mingled and quiet. Sherlock presses open the door to their flat with silence in his fingers and freezes; breath caught behind his teeth.

Sprawled on the couch, head thrown back with eyes closed as his entire body shivers is John. Knelt between his legs is a woman, long auburn hair hanging down her back as she bends over John’s lap. Sherlock watches as she lifts and drops her head, notes the red flush of John’s cheeks and hears his heavy breathing.

John makes _noises._ Soft, breathy little sounds that hit Sherlock like a freight train. His pupils dilating, pulse sped up by several beats, Sherlock watches with wide eyes. As his own breathing stutters, he brings a fist to his mouth, sinking teeth against white knuckles, and stares.

Sherlock has seen John in nearly every situation, nearly every state of mind. But not like _this_. Not in this toe-curling, finger-clenching, coming-undone state. John’s face is simultaneously focused and distracted, his eyes dark beneath pale lashes.

He looks vulnerable—deliciously exposed—and Sherlock finds himself utterly _fascinated. _To him, John has always been such a firm force, a walking time bomb tempered by shocking levels of tiresome empathy. But he has never seen him like _this_—this mellowed, softened version, spread across the couch in submissive, careless abandon, is riveting. Sherlock finds himself unable—or unwilling—to look away.

He watches John finally come to pieces and release. Watches his body jerk and spasm, soft sounds of pleasure and ecstasy slipping from his lips as he spills himself down the willing throat of his date. Sherlock frowns at the violence with which it happens, the way John's fingers dig and clench into the couch cushions, body thrumming and shaking with an edge of something bordering just slightly off from anger.

John comes back to himself, intentionally clears his face and tilts his torso up, brushing forcefully gentle fingers through the long strands of his date’s hair. Sherlock grits his teeth and watches John sort himself out and regain his composure as they both sit up and straighten themselves, searching out scattered clothing.

Jaw tense, Sherlock slips silently back down the stairs, carefully sidestepping the icy puddle of his own making. Manhandling the front door open, he slams it shut again, letting the sound reverberate through the building. There's a scrambling sound upstairs that he ignores as his ears pick up on faint zipping and rustlings. Rattling his coat against the banister, he clears his throat and calls out.

"_John_, I am _freezing._"

He takes the stairs in heavy, pounding steps, driving home the fact that he's back: that this is _his_home, _his_territory, and he's come back to claim it as such.

When he pushes into the flat, John and his date are more or less sorted, the woman pulling on her coat while John rises from the couch to see her out. The only signs of their activities are her mussed hair, the hints of coral lipstick on John's shirt collar, the dubious bruises hiding in the curve of his neck.

As they pass by him, Sherlock watches John following his date down the stairs to the front door, taking longer than usual. Perhaps stealing a parting kiss or pausing for a last fondle in the hallway.

Sherlock's lips twitch, teeth briefly exposed as they curl back, and sweeps into the living room. He ignores his preferred spot on the sofa—which still smells faintly of sweat and sex and John—and throws himself into a sprawl across John’s armchair, taking special care to settle his dripping, soaking head of curls upon the union jack pillow.

When John returns, the cushion and the chair's arm are both soaked through, with Sherlock shivering in their midst, legs hooked over the opposite arm.

“Sherlock, did you want some—_christ,_ you’re bloody _soaked_.”

“Very observant, John. Clever deduction indeed, seeing as it’s snowing.” Sherlock bites back, shifting into a more comfortable curl. Head tilting back, his eyes settle on John’s frowning face. “Hope your date doesn’t suffer the same fate.” He adds, lips twitching with a subtle edge to the words. If John catches the tone, he doesn’t say anything, settling instead for an eye roll and customary sigh.

“She took a cab, obviously.” Sherlock continues and delights as John grits his teeth at the intrusion. Lifting his head and closing his eyes, Sherlock plucks at his sodden trousers. “Did you have a good time?” He asks, carefully nonchalant, refusing to let on that he knows _exactly_ what sort of time was had.

John nods, heading into the kitchen. “Fantastic, actually, thanks for asking. And you should change. Preferably _before_ the chair grows mould.” The words float into the living room, accompanied by the sound of John putting the kettle on. “Knowing you, you’d probably designate it as some sort of ‘experiment,’ and I’d never get my chair back.”

Sherlock snorts and doesn’t deign to reply, absently tugging at knots in his wet hair as he watches John putter about the small flat with idle eyes.

It’s dark when Sherlock stands at the living room window, looking out at the street below. Snow falls in thick, silent flakes, gliding past in flurries and gusts of wind. The passing cars paint brief stripes of white-edged yellow light over the snow-dusted ground, fading away in seconds. Sherlock’s fingers drum against the window ledge, teeth dug into his bottom lip and brow creased in a faint frown. His tense jaw works, chewing at a problem, and his eyes are somewhere between dark and not entirely there.

He has never wanted anyone before, not like this, and—frankly—it’s _distracting._

Earlier, he’d found himself hovering outside the door to John’s room, listening to faint sounds of breathing and sleep. To the subtle rustlings of the bed sheets whenever his flatmate shifted position, movements unconsciously beckoning Sherlock closer, until he found himself standing at the edge of the bed. He’d looked down, hesitated and ached. Scowled and stormed from the room in a quiet parody of tantrum. The ending of his escape found him standing at the window, as he was now, fingers crooked together and knuckles white with tension.

It’s just shy of 3 am when he makes his way back upstairs, bare feet whispering over the floorboards. He doesn’t quite pause in the doorway, more of a slight off-step in pace, and enters John’s room confidently this time, and his mind made up. When he encounters the edge of the bed, he moves past it, slips beneath the covers and works his body into the contours of John’s back, melting against the bends of his knees, ankles and shoulder blades.

Predictably, John starts awake, eyes flashing open with drowsy confusion beneath lowered lashes. He shifts onto his side—an awkward contortion of limbs because Sherlock refuses to budge against the pressing of shoulders and hip bones—and turns his head, eyes barely open.

“Sh’lock?” John slurs, the edge of sleep stealing away his coherence with face still slack and gaze not quite there. “What’re you…” his voice trails away in an obscenely wide yawn that pushes his eyes shut and stretches his mouth. He doesn’t recover quickly enough from the action. As soon as his mouth relaxes, almost closing, Sherlock’s lips are on his, insistent and stealing breath, tucking it away behind teeth and sucking it down a hungry throat.

Sherlock is rewarded with slightly parted lips and startled, stuttering gasps of warm air against his face. He takes firm hold of the moment, moves his mouth slowly against John’s and tastes his tongue in deliciously deliberate movements.

When John’s faculties return, his brain catching up with the moment, it’s with hands on Sherlock’s chest and his head jerking back. “Sherlock,” he demands, speech coherent at last, voice mildly gritty. “What the _hell _are you doing?”

Sherlock is silent, offering nothing in return for long moments, before finally turning his face away. “Dull.” He states, face closing off as his eyes fade to a washed-up grey.

John has no choice but to sit up and awkwardly plant an arm on Sherlock's other side, leaning over to see his face. The detective looks up at him, eyes dropping to John’s mouth as it opens.

“Sherlock.” His voice is steady and rough with sleep. “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

John’s face contorts, and he rubs a hand over his jaw, scraping faint hints of morning stubble as he balances his weight on the arm planted next to Sherlock’s ribs. He can feel the heat radiating from the detective’s body, slow and vicious in its assault upon his muddled senses.

“Explain what you’re doing here, in my bed. Why you’re—” to Sherlock’s pleasure, John’s face flushes red to his ears as he clears his throat to continue. “Why you’re kissing me in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock arches a brow, a sardonic expression slipping across his face. “Is there some _other_ time I should be kissing you instead?” he asks, unable to contain the smirk that accompanies his words.

“No—_what_? Wait—no, what in bloody hell are you _talking _about?” John exclaims, rearing back in surprise at such an unexpected answer.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shifts up onto his elbows and leans towards John until their faces are inches apart. John doesn’t move away, but he observes Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

“I saw you, John,” Sherlock murmurs, pinning John in place with his gaze, intense, burning. John says nothing, sitting as if entranced, balanced on one arm as he and Sherlock lay inclined toward one another. His breath puffs out in short, sharp breaths, tickling along Sherlock’s cheek as the detective adds, “on the couch, earlier.”

John’s eyes widen, and the flush returns, painting his skin a brilliant red. “I—you—what!” The words drop from his lips in short, indignant sputters. “You mean you saw—” he chokes in embarrassment as his face darkens to a deeper shade. Sherlock watches the spectacle, deeply intrigued, a slight smirk on his lips. However, as he leans forward, the smile fades away. Pressing his fingertips to John’s neck, he slowly strokes along the edge of his flatmate’s jaw.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock hums, trailing the tip of his index fingers over the swoop of John’s collar bone. “I did indeed see you. And,” his face grows coy, an edge dropping into his words as his eyes sharpen. “I _heard _you…”

John jerks as Sherlock ducks his head and brushes his lips ever so lightly over a dark hickey on John’s shoulder, drawing faint shivers from the other man.

“Sherlock…” John begins the sentence with a voice that fails, trails off as Sherlock sits back and looks him in the eye with a faintly flushed face and open, wet lips. John jumps when, beneath the sheets, Sherlock’s hand slowly slides up his bare leg, brushes over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Sherlock brings his face to John’s neck again, breathes hot, eager breath against John’s skin and whispers into his ear: “I want you to make those noises again. Make those noises for _me_, John.” With his face against John’s shoulder, Sherlock presses insistent lips to John’s jaw. Beneath Sherlock’s attention, John trembles with breath stuttering from his mouth like machine gunfire. Eyes sliding to half-mast, he tilts his head back with a soft groan as Sherlock’s hand kneads along his inner thigh.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock’s voice, breathy and soft, is heavy with a hoarse undertone. “Just like that.” He angles his head, nipping John’s earlobe and feels the other man jump at the sting. “Very good.” As he shifts closer, sliding his long form in the gently tangled sheets, John tilts his hips forward, pressing himself into Sherlock’s eager hands. Feeling the growing, insistent hardness of John under his fingers, Sherlock shivers. Body thrumming with feverish energy, he lets his eyes slide shut, seeking out John’s mouth with his own.

Lips meeting, they both sink into the kiss, John dropping soft sounds of pleasure into Sherlock’s eager mouth as he tugs at the detective’s robe. Finding little beneath it in the way of clothing, he glides his palms over Sherlock’s chest, over his shoulders and along his neck. He tangles greedy fingers in dark, thickly curled hair.

Sherlock finds his way past John’s lips with gentle flicks and sweeps of his tongue, tasting heat and something indescribably _John_ when the other man opens for him. John groans against Sherlock’s mouth, the sound breaking off into a low growl as he shifts his body, using his hip to push Sherlock onto his back and straddling the detective’s waist with quick, impatient movements.

Pushing his head back against the mattress, Sherlock looks up at John. With lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark and half-closed, he is the picture of perfect lust. When he rolls his hips, grinding their bodies together, a sharp whine escapes John, and he stares down at the man in his bed with a look bordering on madness. As he stares, struggling internally with desire, confusion and uncertainty, Sherlock drags his fingernails over John’s hip bones. He slips his hand between them and grabs the hard part of John he finds there.

“I want you, John.” Working his hand in a quick, jerking movement, Sherlock stares at John’s lips, traces his hot face with dark eyes. “_All_ of you.”

John feels the tug and pull of Sherlock’s hand on him, hesitates and fights the urge to sink into the feeling. When Sherlock’s mouth fastens on his shoulder, sucking at the skin with greedy pressure, he loses it. He lets himself go and gives himself to the pleasure rolling through him at Sherlock’s touch. When Sherlock nips his skin again, John grabs him by the wrists. Raising them over Sherlock’s head, he pins the man beneath him and claims his lips with his own. Grinding his hips down, he bites Sherlock’s bottom lip and devours the little startled yelp Sherlock makes in response. He briefly wonders if he was too aggressive and is quickly reassured when Sherlock responds by locking a leg over John’s hip, pulling him tighter against his body.

They bump and grind against one another, and Sherlock shivers beneath John as the ex-military man explores Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, sucks on his full upper lip, drops heavy, needy kisses over Sherlock’s face and neck. When Sherlock begins to squirm beneath him, twisting his pinned wrists with sudden aggression, John releases the hold, leaning back in surprise with his upper body propped up on his forearms.

“What are you—?” John begins, but Sherlock is pushing at his chest with insistent hands.

“On your back, John. Get on your back.” He demands, tone leaving little to no room for argument. Confused, John obliges, rolling off of Sherlock’s body and onto his back. Sherlock immediately slides down the bed and tugs at John’s underwear. He glares at him until John raises his hips and allows them to be pulled to his ankles and tossed onto the floor.

“Sherlock—” he starts and is brought to silence as Sherlock plants his hands on his thighs, bends and brings his lips to the tip of John’s erection. He is starting to think, with faint annoyance, that he will never finish a sentence again when Sherlock takes him into his mouth, and his mind falls silent with purely carnal bliss.

As Sherlock pleasures him with lips and tongue, John gasps and sucks in a stuttering breath that burns like ice in his hot, shivering body. Sherlock hollows his cheeks, lowers and raises his head as his lips move up and down the length of John’s hard shaft with his hands stroking along the other man’s inner thighs. When John begins to pant, low moans breaking into the rhythm of his jagged breathing, Sherlock hums—almost _purrs_—deep in his throat, a pleased glint in his eyes.

“Bloody hell, _Sherlock_,” John gasps, hips jerking upwards almost involuntarily. “If you don’t stop doing that thing with your tongue and the humming, I am definitely going to come in your mouth.”

His face almost unbearably smug, Sherlock sits back slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his swollen lips. He leans back on his hands, one leg falling to the side, robe hanging off his shoulders as he smirks at John with a face heavy from pink-cheeked lust.

John just stares at him, eyes raking over the long, lean lines of Sherlock’s body. Finally and all at once, he surges forward and grabs Sherlock, turning to all but throw him into the middle of the bed, the movement making the muscles of his back, shoulders and arms stand out in stark relief beneath his skin. Sherlock flops into the mattress with a soft _whumpf _sound, eyes wide with surprise that quickly changes to anticipation as John crawls on top of him, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head. Holding his body just above Sherlock’s so they can feel the heat emanating from their hot skin, he brings his face down to Sherlock’s, breathing heavily as he quivers with sweat shining on his brow.

“Tell me again, Sherlock,” John whispers, noting how the other man stares at his lips. Anchoring himself on one arm, he strokes a hand between the detective’s legs, eliciting a soft cry from full lips. “Tell me you want me,” John breathes, dipping his head and sucking delicately at the skin in the hollow of Sherlock’s neck.

Tilting his head, Sherlock grabs handfuls of bedsheets and arches his neck for John to explore. “Yes.” He closes his eyes and shivering as John’s tongue flicks along the mark he leaves on pale skin. “Yes, John.”

“Say it,” John growls, slipping his hand beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear, eager fingers encountering heat and tight, hard skin.

Sherlock gasps, pants and trembles, eyes flying open as he bucks his hips up into John’s touch. “Yes, I want you.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, seeking John’s lips and breathing praises against them. “I want you more than anything, John Watson.”

At the sound of his name, John pins Sherlock back to the bed. Pressing him into the mattress with his body, he claims the other man’s lips in a hard, adoring kiss that melts Sherlock against his chest, leaving the detective soft and pliable beneath him.

When their lips finally part, John slides a hand down Sherlock’s side; over his rear and down his leg, pulling the last barrier between them away as he tosses Sherlock’s pants into the dark of the room. Sticking his finger in his mouth, John pulls it out, slick with saliva, and begins to work it into Sherlock with slow, gentle movements. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s face as the other man quivers and pushes into the sensation, gauging where pleasure ends, and pain begins, steering clear of the fine line.

Adding a second finger to the first, John bends to drift light kisses over the curve of Sherlock’s hip, stroking his free hand over the light skin of the detective’s stomach. Sherlock shivers under the caress, lifting his hips as John works his fingers inside of him.

“John.” Sherlock writhes beneath him, pressing his face into the sheets. “_John_.” There’s an urgency to his words and neediness in his voice that John understands deep within his bones. Leaning over, he opens the drawer of his bedside table, pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom. Preparing himself, he does the same for Sherlock before bending down and kissing him long and deep. 

“Are you sure?” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips. He is struck by the sudden, strangeness of this moment: earlier today, he was on a date with a woman—now he is in bed with his flatmate, a man both insufferable and unbearably gorgeous. Sherlock hums, gripping John’s hips and rocking his own up to meet them, driving away any uncertainty. 

“Did you not hear me?” Sherlock ducks his head and mouths along the edge of John’s jaw with his voice pitched low. “I _want you_.” The last comes out in a deep, rumbling purr that goes straight to John’s aching groin, sending shivers along his spine. 

“Oh god, yes,” John groans. Sinking onto his knees, he lifts Sherlock’s hips. He positions himself and very slowly slides forward into Sherlock’s body. Feeling Sherlock around him, tight and warm, feels completely _right_.

It feels like coming home. 

Leaning forward, John loops his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him into his lap. Tangling fingers in sweat-dampened curls, John ravishes Sherlock’s mouth with his, shifting to thrust his hips in a slow, almost teasing rhythm. Sherlock, making a quiet kind of whine against his lips, tilts his head and presses his face into John’s neck, clinging to John, all legs and long arms.

“Hm,” John hums, gently pulling Sherlock’s head back by a handful of his hair to bare his neck for his mouth to explore. “You’re certainly much easier to deal with when you’re like this.” The teasing is light, a stark offset to the way he draws typewriter lines of sharp little nips down Sherlock’s neck with his teeth.

Sherlock snorts, a noise of annoyance. Planting his hands on John’s shoulders, he lifts himself up and back down, slowly repeating the action as John moans beneath him, head falling back with eyes closed in elation.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock murmurs, watching John’s face with intent, expectant eyes. “Make _those_ noises for me, John. For _me._” He seizes John’s face in his hands, rocking his hips forward and down, drawing a soft whimper from the man beneath him. “_Only_ for me,” Sherlock adds, voice fervent, intense, possessive. John looks at him from beneath half-closed eyes, tongue flicking out to trace along his own bottom lip as sweat beads along his brow. A slow look of surprise—followed almost immediately by a pleased smile—drifts across his face as a realization occurs to him. Sherlock can almost hear the thought in John’s head, and he digs his nails against the skin of his palms as John asks,

“Are you _jealous_, Sherlock?” Despite his smug face, John’s tone is incredulous—and a little hopeful. Sherlock’s lips curl, a sharp retort on his tongue, but he pauses; swallows it down and presses close to John instead, peering at him from beneath lowered lashes.

“Perhaps, John,” Sherlock murmurs, still maintaining that same demure expression. “And, if I were? What then?”

John smirks. He tips them both forward without moving apart to lay Sherlock on his back against the mattress with his legs bent on either side of John. Leaning down, he places an agonizingly tender kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, sliding his hand down to cup Sherlock’s backside as he moves inside him with slow, achingly gentle thrusts.

“Then, I’d have to fuck you into this mattress until you screamed for me.” John’s voice drops into a throaty tone, and he drives himself a little harder into Sherlock’s body. Beneath him, back arching with pleasure, Sherlock huffs out a loud, breathy moan, hands scrabbling for purchase on John’s sweat-slick back. Finding hold on damp shoulders, he pulls John against his chest, kissing him fiercely.

“All talk and no action, Watson, Sherlock hisses against John’s lips, eyes glinting with a clear challenge.

“All right, well…” biting at Sherlock’s neck, John plants his hands, raises his head and looks into Sherlock’s smug face. “You asked for it.” Shifting forward, he angles his hips, locks his arms behind Sherlock’s bent legs to push them forward. Finding and holding Sherlock’s eyes with his, he thrusts hard and fast into the other man, pulling a sharp cry from his lips. He shifts back and does it again. Sherlock’s little whimpers of pleasure make the blood roar in his ears, and the breaths stutter in his chest.

As John drives into his body with a rough rhythm that grips Sherlock with thrills of aching pleasure, he grabs at the sheets and tilts his head back. He stares at the ceiling with wide eyes and an open mouth. He finds himself crying out, aimless sound and slurred gasps of John’s name on his lips. Panting, he feels his own erection trembling between them, and when John wraps a slick, confident hand around it, Sherlock’s hips buck. He grabs at John, holds him close with moans filling his throat. John makes noises against his neck, hips pushing forward and back as his hand works upon Sherlock, stroking with insistent caresses.

When he feels John’s body begin to tense, breath quickening against his skin, Sherlock digs his nails into the other man’s arms. He puts his lips near his ear and growls, “You’re _mine_, John. Say you’re mine.” He flicks his tongue over salty skin and hooks his legs around John to pull him closer, bring him deeper. “Say my name.”

“Sherlock,” John gasps, movements turning rough and unbalanced as he nears climax. Still stroking Sherlock’s hard shaft between them, his fingers tremble and slip over pre-cum. “I’m yours, Sherlock. Oh, god—fuck, Sherlock, I’m all yours.”

As John begins to shudder, Sherlock holds him tightly, all limbs and mouth and shivering, aching desire. “_Mine_.” He hisses, sighs and stutters, his own body tensing as John kisses him with feverish desperation.

They cling to one another as they both come apart. Come undone together with John crying out—calling Sherlock’s name—and Sherlock gasping, bodies intertwined, shaking with their individual orgasms.

Spent, John collapses against Sherlock’s chest, his back heaving with the force of heavy breathing. Beneath him, Sherlock lays like a limp doll, arms and legs spread akimbo on the twisted sheets. Quivering bodies twined together, they lay in silence, catching their breath and regaining composure.

The silence stretches out in the dark room, heavy with dynamic change and unspoken explanations.

Slowly, finally, John rolls away. He stands and moves to the bathroom to clean himself up. Sherlock wipes tissues over his lower stomach, tosses them into the trash bin beside the bed and waits for John to return. When he does, he moves across the room with a slow, hesitant step. The pale, almost-light of 4 am shifts in from the window to highlight the anxious expression on his face.

When he stands at the edge of the bed, lingering and tentative, Sherlock takes his hand and pulls him gently down beside him. As John lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, Sherlock shivers, the cold air of the bedroom drifting over sweat-dampened skin. Shifting, he curls against John’s side, finding and pulling the blanket over them both.

When the silence grows to deafening absence, Sherlock slips a hand over John’s chest, gently takes hold of his chin and turns his face towards him. Eyes dark and uncertain, John stares at him with a helplessly lost expression. Sherlock scowls and brings their lips together. He kisses John until he relaxes and softens beneath Sherlock’s gentle attentions. When they finally separate, Sherlock brackets John’s face with both hands, smoothing a thumb along his jaw's sharp line.

“I meant it when I said I want _all_ of you, John,” he murmurs, stressing words to underline the force of his statement.

“Oh, you mean you don’t want me just for my body?” John retorts, but Sherlock hears the affection—the sheer, ecstatic relief—under the carefully constructed response. The detective snorts. He presses their foreheads together and moves a hand to John’s neck, feeling out the pulse point beneath the skin. Finding it erratic and fluttering, he smiles.

“Come now, John. Sentiment is not always a defect of the _losing_ side.”

John chuckles at the words and presses a slow, lingering kiss to Sherlock’s willing mouth. As they pull apart, he flops onto his back, pulling Sherlock down onto his chest with him. They lay in companionable silence this time, with Sherlock idly scrolling shapes over the edges of the old scar on John’s shoulder with his fingertip.

After a long moment, John speaks again: “Guess I’d better cancel my date for tomorrow.” Sherlock growls deep in his throat, spreading a possessive hand over John’s chest. In the dark, John can see the way his eyes flash, and he chuckles. “Maybe I’ll take you out instead. Is that acceptable?”

Sherlock repositions himself against John, looping a long arm across the other man’s body and holding tightly to his waist.

“That is more than acceptable, John,” Sherlock hums, blinking slowly as snow drifts past the bedroom window. They curl into one another on the bed, turning cold shoulders to the chill of the room.


End file.
